


Perusal

by ImpOfPerversity



Series: Devastation-verse [14]
Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-07-08
Updated: 2004-07-08
Packaged: 2018-10-21 06:59:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10680120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity





	Perusal

Jack Sparrow mistrusted appearances, having spent much of his life ensuring that his own external Character reflected nothing of what was happening in his head; moreover, he knew how easily the eye could be beguiled and distracted from what was important by what was merely pleasing; but he found his own eye drawn all too frequently (it was too soon to stare, but these, he reasoned, were mere glances, and he could glance, as though at random, again and again) towards Jack Shaftoe: Shaftoe drew the eye, and it wasn't only Jack Sparrow's eye that he drew, for time and again Jack caught one or another of his crew in the act of looking away from the newcomer; often the sailor would blush, and that of course was far more noticeable, so noticeable that _Shaftoe_ would notice it and scowl; but Jack, as a matter of fact, almost preferred the scowl to Shaftoe's reposeful face, for though Shaftoe was by no means a beauty – his face must always have been too masculine for mere prettiness, and the exploits of recent years (Jack Sparrow believed no more than a third of Shaftoe's stories, but the scars didn't lie) had burnished him with wind, weather and sharp metal, not to mention the trials and tribulations of the human lot – there was a quality of animation, of vivacity, about his features that fascinated Jack; he liked simply watching Shaftoe as he talked with his mates, or went about the work of the _Pearl_ – he'd taken well to that, too – or, most engaging of all, when he was alone and thought himself unobserved, as now; Jack Sparrow, curled snake-like in the crow's-nest, was peering surreptitiously through his spyglass at Shaftoe as he leaned on the rail, watching the bow-wave that spread out behind them, to the north-west; the _Black Pearl_ was following the curve of the Devon coast (Jack had wanted to drop in on an old acquaintance in Plymouth) before heading out into the grey Atlantic, and the scent of mayflower drifted out over the water, sweet and green and carrying with it a sense of yearning (though to Shaftoe, so at ease in the dives and stews of Southwark, it might mean nothing) and evoking a faint nostalgia in Jack himself – not for a life on land, of course, but for the green fields and soft curves of his native country ... never mind that, though, for Shaftoe stretched – he'd caught the sun, and his skin was warm gold, striped with white scars; the muscles in his shoulders made Jack Sparrow want to slide down from his eyrie and start licking – and then lolled bonelessly against the polished wood, face upturned to the coppery sun and blue eyes closed, which gave Jack Sparrow a sterling opportunity to angle his glass and examine each feature in an attempt to determine what made Shaftoe's face so very worth watching: it might be the bright blue eyes (now shut) under straight dark brows, legacy of some Celtic ancestry; or the wide mouth, currently still but capable of an astonishing, contagious range of expression, wicked or sly or thoughtful or simply good-humoured; or the broad nose, not improved by having been broken a couple of times, but congruent with the curious harmony of Shaftoe's face; or even the long, light, matted hair, tied back at the nape of Shaftoe's neck with a greasy leather thong, framing the strong bones of his face and the anatomy lesson of his throat, making Jack, in his eyrie, run his tongue over his upper lip, trying to remember the taste of Jack Shaftoe's skin from that one euphoric, Boccaccian interlude in a smelly attic in Southwark; it wasn't, to be sure, that he was at all reluctant to repeat the experience, but Shaftoe'd had a point when he walked up to Jack Sparrow, showed him his knife and explained – in a voice that was really quite calm and reasonable, everything considered – that, given the choice, he'd rather not have been bundled, blindfolded, onto a black-sailed pirate ship in the middle of the night; Jack had apologised, of course, had blamed a sudden surge of sanguine humours – or perhaps the conjunction of several hitherto unknown planets – for his entirely impetuous, unorchestrated act (" _sheer coincidence_ , honestly, that the _Pearl_ came looking for me at that very moment"), and had promised faithfully to let Shaftoe off in Plymouth Sound if he didn't care for life aboard the _Black Pearl_ , and since then Shaftoe had been cheerful enough, if a trifle distant; but under the circumstances Jack didn't feel that any overtures or offers of dalliance would be entirely welcome; thus, he was waiting for the opportune moment, waiting for Shaftoe's notable chill to evaporate in the delightfully warm and rum-aroma'd evening air, waiting for Shaftoe to meditate upon the events of that night ('That Night', Jack capitalised to himself) and recall just how much he'd enjoyed it – no one, surely, could pretend to such transports of delight without feeling some considerable proportion of them, and Jack – who'd been party to some extravagant performances in his time, though mainly from females – felt some justifiable pride in Shaftoe's uninhibited, inarticulate response to Jack's efforts: "so," murmured Jack to himself, lowering the glass, "he liked it, and he hasn't jumped ship yet – plenty of chance in Folkestone, though who'd want to – and he's still here, but we'll raise Start Point tomorrow morning ..." and his monologue trailed off into indistinct reckonings, as he tried to determine just how many more hours were left to him to accomplish the reseduction (always so much more difficult the second time around) of Jack Shaftoe, who shifted and swayed with the movement of the ship, twenty feet below where Jack sat muttering to himself; so much the better, of course, if Shaftoe came to him of his own accord, and perhaps even (Jack indulged himself by imagining) _asked_ – or, better, _begged_ – for another dose of the carnal satisfaction that only Captain Jack Sparrow could provide: yes, Mr Shaftoe would beg for Jack to kiss him, and he'd kiss furiously back (Jack was hardening at the thought, which'd make it damned inconvenient to slide back down the backstay) and they'd tear the ragged shirts from one another's bodies – maybe he could persuade Mr Shaftoe to remain shirtless in future? – and then fall together onto Jack's bunk, ever so much more comfortable and less prickly than the mouldy straw mattress on which they'd consorted in Southwark, and he'd stretch Jack Shaftoe out – long legs, so he'd have to curve and curl into Jack's wedge-shaped bed, but Jack would do his best to distract him from any incipient claustrophobia, and he knew he was capable of being extremely distracting – and firstly remind him of a few of the landmark events of That Night; and then he'd lay his mouth against Jack's skin, he'd slicken his hand with something more slippery than saliva, and ... Jack's thoughts disintegrated, and he almost dropped the glass as he lifted it to his eye once more; and Jack Shaftoe looked directly up at him and winked, a second time, as his hand slid down underneath his shirt.


End file.
